The Shield
by MississippiIsabel
Summary: Set at a juxtaposition, they complemented each other, completed each other. Without one, neither of them existed. So when Steve dies, what does that make Tony? Angst, fluff, possible lemony goodness. Based on a wonderful piece of fan art.
1. Chapter 1

_Tony yanked his worn AC/DC shirt over his head and discarded it on the closet floor, rubbing the workshop grease off of his fingers onto his jeans before pulling the long sleeve shirt he wore under it off, fingering the hole in the chest before throwing it down along with his tee shirt. Glancing down at his arc reactor, the light faltered twice. He flicked it once, twice and the light continued steadily. He'd get around to fixing it later, when it wasn't 3 AM. He then pulled at his belt buckle, undoing it and allowing his too loose jeans to fall farther down on his hips. Pulling at the loops of his jeans, he freed his belt and hung it on a hook bolted to the wall. Rifling through hangers of clean dress shirts, attempting to locate a free hanger, he felt a pair of large, square hands slide around his midsection. Tony's body braced in response to the unexpected touch and his hands automatically went up to his assumed attacker's lower arms, gripping them tightly, as if about to flip the assailant over and onto the closet floor. His hands loosened as he realized who had gotten the jump on him. "Dammit Rogers," Tony half chuckled "You know you could give me a little freaking warning before you go all ninja Cap on me. Say something like 'Hey, Tony I'm about to touch you'" Steve pushed his nose into Tony's collarbone and kissed it lightly. "Well I could," he began to explain, planting kisses up and down Tony's neck "But that just wouldn't be any fun." He spun Tony around and pulled him close, one hand pressed to the small of Tony's back, the other to his shoulder blades. Tony pushed his thumb across his soldier's cheek and left his hand to rest on the side of Steve's neck. In the darkness of the closet, and the darkness of Stark Towers, the blue glow emitting from Tony's arc reactor lit up the two men's faces, ghostly and beautiful. Steve watched the light dance in Tony's eyes as he leaned in to capture Tony's un-kissed lips._

"We gather here on this day, to honor the tragic and sudden passing of a heroic and noble man." Nick Fury's voice faded into white noise, as Tony stood on the green of the cemetery field, watching the love of his life being lowered into the ground. He stepped forward, his helmet tucked under his elbow, and placed his hand on the glass of the unclosed casket. Spreading his palm over Captain America's lifeless figure, a single tear fell from his eye, cutting a path through sweat and stubble, disappearing into his metal suit. Tony bent his head into his neck and squeezed his eyes shut in pain, feeling the loss dig a hole into him, pushing further and further in. But unlike the shrapnel in his heart, there was nothing to hold it back, no science to stop the pain. The tears were falling freely now and the rest of the Avengers pretended not to notice. They had gathered one last time, for the funeral of a fallen comrade. "Steve Rogers was the bravest, kindest and most selfless man I knew. He will forever be missed. May he rest in peace." Upon hearing the last words of Fury's impromptu sermon, Tony roughly pulled on his helmet and, assuming the identity of Iron Man, blasted off into the sky. Leaving the team, and the Captain, staring wordlessly after him.

_The meeting of a one Tony Stark and Captain Steve Rogers had been a fiery one. Tony, the rebellious modern era man, and Steve, the stick-to-the-rules man out of time. Nothing about them should have worked together. They had nothing in common. Different ends of the spectrum. Two wavelengths running on, never overlapping. And yet, they had. The reason they were so wrong for each other was also the reason they were so right. Steve knew pain like Tony knew pain. Steve knew ostracism like Tony knew ostracism. And despite everything, they completed each other. Of course, Captain America and Iron Man had issues. Who's in charge issues. What's the next move issues. Tony-youre-such-a-loose-canon-you're-endangering-the-team issues. But that was to be expected. The rest of the Avengers sat back and watched as Iron Man and the Captain stepped into each other's personal space, fuming and red faced and shouting. Thor would often ask questions, as to clarify the situation. "I do not understand. Why do they not fight to the death for command? Tis the easiest way." To which Clint would reply "'Cause they're in love, stupid." And then they'd turn their heads to look at Clint, now fiddling with his extremely interesting and relevant bow, and remember why they fought in the first place. Because they WERE in love. Even if neither one of them was ready to admit it. Tony and Steve. Steve and Tony. In a completely non-platonic way. They had danced around it for weeks, months, but surprisingly enough, it was Cap that made the first move, kissing Tony once lightly in his workshop, and then shuffling his feet and blushing scarlet. That was the first night they slept together. It was also the first night that they realized that they didn't just complete each other, they were at a juxtaposition. A personification of modern ways and the reserved ways of the late sixties. Captain America, ready to charge into a burning building to save a life. Iron Man, flying in after him to find out why the boiler had blown in the first place. They complemented each other. And without one, there simply wasn't the other. _


	2. Chapter 2

Iron Man swerved to narrowly avoid a small passenger plane. "Dammit Jarvis! Warn me about approaching aircrafts!" He scowled and cussed under his breath. "I did, sir...Twice." Tony Stark sighed and blinked a few times to dislodge the image of the Captains body from the underside of his eyelids. "Jarvis, changing course. We're going back to Stark towers." Jarvis replied cordially. "Of course, sir. Changing route from Alaska to New York, New York."

When Tony had first flown away from the funeral, he needed to disappear for a while, he needed to escape the way his head pounded and his eyes stung and his throat ached to scream. What he needed was Steve. The suit lost a little altitude as that thought flashed through Tony's mind. He resolutely decided that now what he needed was to build something. Anything. He needed to feel metal mold beneath his hands, he needed the bolts and screws and hammers and lug nuts and anything but the glass of the coffin. He needed to occupy his mind. As he walked down the slope into the Stark tower's glass windowed room, robotic arms began to strip him of his armor. And although the weight of the suit was lifted, it still felt as though gravity was becoming heavier. Now, more than ever, without his suit he felt exposed, scared and alone. The man supposedly made of iron rolled his shoulders, as if to dislodge the weight, and went to pour himself a drink.

_"You shouldn't drink so much, Stark. You should know better." Tony looked up from the metal he was saudering in annoyance before taking another sip of scotch. "Who let you in, Cap? Was it Jarvis? I bet it was Jarvis. For an AI he's pretty damn vengeful. He's just mad that I updated his mainframe because it had bugs on it. Probably got it from that motherboard he'd been messing around with. He never listens and I always end up..." Steve cut him off before he could continue on with his long-winded speech. "Tony, I let myself in. Calm down." Tony tilted his head back and let his eyes go wide. He turned in a complete circle, looking around the room, confused. "But this is the..." he counted on his fingers "Eleventyith story! There aren't doors here!" Steve coughed to cover a laugh and shuffled his feet awkwardly. "I took the elevator...?" Stark squinted one eye half shut in scrutiny of his companion's logical response. Raising an eyebrow, then nodding, he turned and began to pick at the hot metal. The soldier jumped forward to stop Tony from burning himself, pulling him back by the shoulders. Tony looked up at him curiously, tilting his head from side to side, as though looking at Rogers from every feasible angle. Steve dropped his hands back down to his sides, flushing a bit. "We should get you to bed...You're...uhm...what's the word? Smashed?" Tony pursed his lips and nodded, "Yes, I am smash-" The last syllable was punctuated by a whoof of air as he tripped over his own feet and flopped to the ground like his bones were made of jelly. "Swell..." Rogers murmured under his breath. Bending down, he lifted Tony over his shoulder like a sack of flour and carried him out of the workshop, bumping his head on the door jamb on the way out. Tony whined a protest at the jolt but continued to hang across Steve's shoulder limply, half asleep. _

_Wandering aimlessly around the "eleventyith" story of Stark Towers, Steve searched in vain for a bed or couch to put Tony down on until he could find someplace more fitting for a millionaire playboy. As the thought passed through his head Steve wondered what exactly a "playboy" was and firmly decided to brave the "internets" to find it. Frustrated with the twisting corridors and all together too many doors, he settled for the counter of the bar. Clearing the glasses and bottles slowly, with one hand, he noted the unnecessary amount of aged scotch that Tony had. He figured it was simply for the price, the flashy name brand labels and the stigma they carted around with them. As he moved the last remaining cup from the marble counter Tony awoke with a start and clutched the back of the Captain's shirt with both hands. "Fuck! Shit fuck shit! Steve! Steve! I am UPSIDE DOWN. THIS IS DISORIENTING." With a chuckle Steve flipped Tony back up and onto the counter. The confused, and still plastered, Tony gripped the edge of the counter hard, his feet on the sink and his posterior firmly planted on the marble counter above. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, before passing out and falling backwards off the counter and onto the floor. He heard a _**_thump _**_before the world faded to black. _

Downing another glass of scotch, Tony leaned his head back against the headboard and submitted himself to the spinning in his head and his stomach. Taking three deep breaths to calm the panic building inside of him, he opened his eyes and stared intently at the crack on the ceiling. He remembered how Steve had insisted on sleeping on this side of the bed because back in the Brooklyn home of his childhood little Steve had a crack like this one on his ceiling. Tony was halfway through repairing it when the look in Steve's eyes spoke of a fondness for the little imperfection. He'd spent the next three hours undoing all his caulking work and repairing the crack to it's former state, all the while cursing Steve for being so damn sentimental and for being able to manipulate him without even a spoken word. Stark shuffled down on the bed, pressing his nose into the pillow. The soldier's smell was still there, but it was fading. In a matter of days it would be gone and it would be as though Steve was never even there. As though he hadn't existed. But Tony knew that could never be true. There would always be a space inside of him in case the love of his life decided to come back to fill it one day. There would always be Steve's sketches tacked up on the wall, sketches of Tony working, of the Brooklyn skyline, even of Natasha in action. Those had been harder to get, Nat was secretive about her work outs. But Tony had sneaked in with a camera for Steve and gotten his ass sorely kicked in the process. He laughed bitterly at that memory. His lips started to turn down, a sudden rage overtaking him. If Nat had done her job right, then Steve would be here. It should have been her. Tony threw the tumbler in his hand with everything he had against the far wall. It shattered and dripped down the walls. He pressed his hands to his face and rolled onto his side, curling into himself and drifting into a deep, alcohol induced slumber.


	3. Lovers in the Falls Dying

**Lovers In The Falls Dying**

The king of smiles in his woolen whites,  
Staring at death from hydro heights.  
The Sunshine of his life, in her Salwar yellow,  
Wondering what drove them here and how.

Two years back, in a fruit juice shop,  
their hearts had met and had begun to hop.  
She ran to her dad, her love she confessed,  
'Dear daughter I know, how he is to be addressed.'

In the twelve months that followed, he was threatened and hit,  
In an effort to reason, the couple ran out of their wit.  
Through the next one year as their love ascended,  
'we'll live or leave, as one', they surrendered.

On a Monday morning, a death note back home recorded,  
They arrived at the falls, to watch their love get rewarded.  
Laughed with the fisher men, played with the kids,  
Made love and to love after death, they bid.

As they dressed back and walked to the edge,  
and stuttered through their planned love pledge,  
He carved their names on the bark of a tree,  
And counted with tension, one two and three.

Jumped with hands holding each other's tight,  
but got separated half way through their flight.  
She was torn into pieces, scarf found later in a ranch,  
He was alive trying to kill himself, while stuck on a tree branch.

**Krish King Nishanth**

**Dearest Readers,**

**I apologize for my tardiness in the uploading of a new chapter. However, I am experiencing a severe and prolonged bout of writers block. It should pass soon enough, but until then I'll be looking to some of the greats for inspiration. If you have any ideas, or simply want to review, please feel at liberty to PM me or simply type up a lovely review.**

**All the best,**

**Mississippi Isabel**


	4. Chapter 3

_Tony awoke with a start, head still reeling slightly and tongue a damn good substitute for sandpaper. He sat up and dangled his legs off what he realized was one of the benches in his workshop. Had he fallen asleep here? No, impossible. Every bench in this place was covered, boot to bonnet, in machinery. Half finished booster rockets, scraps of tin and iron alloy, and tools. If there was one thing Tony could name about his workshop that he loved most, it was the tools. The weight of a ratchet in his hand never ceased to wash away all his worries and troubles and fears and insecurities and self doubts and of course, daddy issues. He rubbed a hand across his eyes and before he could think to do anything else, a glass of water was pushed into his hand. "Drink. You'll feel less like you're dying and a little more human." Tony squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember whose voice it was. It was so damn familiar. But everything was dull and unclear, like being submerged underwater. "Tony? Are you alright? Should I call someone? How many fingers am I holding up?" He turned to look at his concerned counterpart. Steve, holding up three fingers. _**_Steve's so cute_**_ Tony thought. He shook his head to dislodge the idea. Cute? Where had that come from? He blinked and all of the sudden the Captain was in his space, hands on both his shoulders, standing between his legs. "Tony. Tony can you hear me? You hit your head falling off a counter...I guess that was my fault, but I couldn't find a couch in this damned tower!" _**_He has freckles too, just a little sprinkle, like confectioner's sugar on cookies _**_He needed to stop drinking so much. His experimental phase had long since passed. He'd been out of college for how many years now? Thinking back on it, it hadn't so much passed as been ridiculed out of him by his father. Howard, who would never admit to it, was a complete homophobe, and even the merest inkling of the idea that his son was one of them was too much for him to handle. So Howard needled Tony. A little bit every day. And as needles do, it became too much for Tony to handle. And the next time he brought someone home, it was a busty brunette with an IQ of 71 and excellent legs. Tony wasn't even sure he knew her name at the time. Blinking himself out of his reverie he looked Steve straight in the eye and kissed him, full on the mouth. Be it spite or a drug addled brain or experimentation or maybe something more slowly taking root in the pit of his stomach, Tony thought this was one of the best ideas he'd had in a long time. Besides maybe the Iron Man suit, that idea was pretty good too. Pulling softly at the soldier's lips with his teeth, he breathed out a little, an almost sigh. It took him a moment to react, but before long, Steve was kissing him back, unabashedly and whole heartedly and with more feeling than Tony thought should ever come of a first kiss. Lost in the taste of tongue and teeth and warmth and the barest traces of alcohol, Tony thought he could taste confectioner's sugar. But maybe that was the hangover talking. _

He poured himself another finger of Jack and picked at his eggs. They really weren't safe for eating, they were running and the whites were still see through. He had woken up, almost drowned in the shower by accident, and then ambled into the kitchen with the intention of eating. Tony had then grown impatient with his eggs and wondered why Steve wasn't there making them like he always did, with a hit of red pepper and some chopped green thing millionaires had no need to name. It was as he was pouring a second cup of coffee, mixing it two parts milk and sugar, one part coffee, that he realized he was the only one alive to drink it. So Tony pushed it slowly to the edge of the counter until it toppled off, dumped his own coffee down the sink, and filled the mug with Jack. So yea, maybe sometimes he forgot that Steve was six feet under, maybe sometimes he rolled over in bed groping around for the hard plane's of Steve's back and shoulders and stomach and hips, maybe sometimes he wandered around looking for Steve in the middle of the night, maybe to talk him out of a war nightmare, maybe to watch him draw. Maybe Steve's smell was still fading from the bed. It got fainter and fainter every day. So Tony took six of his soldier's tee shirts, two pairs of pants, one jacket and one hat and closed them tightly into a ziplock bag, which he then placed in another bag, which he then locked in his vault. If he couldn't have Steve, then he could at least have the way Steve smells...smelled. Tony ran a hand across his face, he needed to shave, **past tense is so bothersome. Steve would still be the same if he was alive. If if if if if. Why shouldn't I use the present tense? Because you're desperate to see him again. You think that if you use the present tense, he'll wake up and dig himself out and come running home. He's dead Tony. Dead and buried and decaying in that lovely glass coffin you have him in. He's not Snow White. He won't wake up if you kiss him. You'll never be able to**- "Sir," Jarvis... "You have visitors." Visitors? Tony didn't have friends. The only people that ever visited were for Steve, and that was mostly little kids or teenagers who wanted an autograph or an interview "for the school news paper! It would really help us get some readers!" Tony sighed and pushed himself away from the counter, "Send them up." He walked off to their...his bedroom to change into something other than Steve's pajama pants. But when he walked back into his kitchen, if you could call it that, he was face to face with Natasha Romanov, the woman who had caused the death of Steve Rogers.

**Dearest Readers,**

**It appears I'm back on track. I'll try to update as regularly as possible, work permitting. I recognize that this chapter is short but, hey, who's the writer here? Drop me a line, dear readers, and let me know if I'm doing my job right.**

**Love and kisses,**

**Mississippi Isabel **


	5. Love Sonnet XVI

XVI

Amo el trozo de tierra que tú eres,  
porque de las praderas planetarias  
otra estrella no tengo. Tú repites  
la multiplicación del universo.

Tus anchos ojos son la luz que tengo  
de las constelaciones derrotadas,  
tu piel palpita como los caminos  
que recorre en la lluvia el meteoro.

De tanta luna fueron para mí tus caderas,  
de todo el sol tu boca profunda y su delicia,  
de tanta luz ardiente como miel en la sombra

tu corazón quemado por largos rayos rojos,  
y así recorro el fuego de tu forma besándote,  
pequeña y planetaria, paloma y geografía.

**Pablo Neruda**

XVI

I love the clump of earth that you are,  
because, from the planetary prairies,  
I have no other star. You repeat  
the universal multiplications.

Your wide eyes are the light that's left  
of the defeated constellations.  
Your skin quivers like the trails left  
in the rain by the passing meteor.

Of so much of the moon, for me, were your hips,  
of the entire sun your deep mouth and its delicacy,  
of so much burning light, like shadowed honey,

your heart, charred with long red rays.  
And so I pass by your fiery form, kissing you,  
planetary and small, my geography, my dove.

**Translation: Terence Clarke**

**Dearest Readers, **

**If there are any of you left, know this. I am currently working at Chapter 5, until then, please enjoy the work of one of my utmost favorite poets, Pablo Neruda. I do have an affinity for poetry in languages other than my native tongue, as you may have noticed. Please enjoy this splendid work.**

**Regards,**

**Mississippi Isabel**


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